


Merry Christmas, Jerk

by cleo4u2, cobaltmoony, xantissa



Series: It Means I Love You [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anniversaries, Dancing, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Captain America: Civil War, Suicidal Thoughts, recovering bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleo4u2/pseuds/cleo4u2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xantissa/pseuds/xantissa
Summary: Bucky is awoken from cryo and Steve surprises him after taking dancing lessons





	Merry Christmas, Jerk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NurseDarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/gifts).



> All Hail The Glow Cloud NurseDarry because the Glow Cloud is celebrating the anniversary of being brought into existence to cast her otherwordly glow upon all of us, especially our writing.  
> \- All Hail - said the authors and artists bringing bountiful gifts. - All Hail - echoed the universe.

The last thing Bucky’s aware of is that Steve is watching as they put him back into the deep freeze after attaching his new arm. When they wake him, it’s the first thing he expects to see. Steve, it turns out, is nowhere to be found. It’s a little like having his arm ripped off again, not having that familiar face there to greet him. T’challa is there, though, a warm smile on the king’s lips. A friendly face, though, it just isn’t the same as a familiar one.

“Welcome back, Sergeant,” T’challa says with his soothing accent, “and Merry Christmas.”

“Um, thanks,” Bucky answers, uncertain because he hasn’t celebrated Christmas since 1944. “Is that why I’m awake?”

Bucky assumes this has to be the case. If they were going to fix his head, Steve would be here, like he was here when they gave him his new arm. The surety of that is a comfort like none Bucky can remember having. Or, rather, it’s a comfort he always took for granted. That Steve would be there, that he cared, that he lo-

Slowly turning his head away from T’challa, Bucky doesn’t hear what the king says as the memories gush from wherever Hydra had trapped them in his mind: Steve, small enough to heft with one hand, threading a needle through berries and popcorn to make a garland for their meager tree. He’s laughing, gesturing emphatically with one hand…

The memory is replaced, splashed over by another: bright lights and a golden-lit Christmas tree. A little girl in a red velvet dress singing carols. A gunshot and a spray of blood…

...Steve in his arms, big as he is now, smiling like he’s been given the best present in the world as Bucky spins him about a lavish hotel room…

...Steve looking up at him, blue eyes dazed but lucid, lip split, eye swollen. He’s not fighting; he’s given in. He’ll be easy to put down now, even with a broken arm, broken ribs, and then they won’t have to wipe him again. They won’t put him in the chair because he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t…

...Cold feet wake him up before dawn, pressed against his calves beneath the blankets. Bucky doesn’t open his eyes, rolls over in their shared bed and wraps his arm around Steve’s waist. He pulls the small, frail body close, knowing he has to keep Steve warm or he’ll get sick again. The last time was bad, not as bad as when he was sixteen, but Bucky had been so scared....

“...Love you…”

Bucky becomes aware that T’challa is staring at him, eyes alight as he awaits a response. From the look of him, he’s eager, thinks Bucky will like whatever it was he was saying. Bucky didn’t hear, he was lost to the memories, but he doesn’t want to explain this. Doesn’t want someone to know how frail his mind really is. How much he doesn’t remember, versus how much he’s scraped together. What he did as Hydra’s Fist, that was easy, but the important things? Steve? He’s lost so much, he couldn’t even say what’s gone anymore, or even if it’s real, or just a trick of his own mind.

Nodding, because that’s a generally accepted response for a lot of things, Bucky’s relieved when T’challa just smiles more widely.

“Then right this way, Sergeant. I’ve prepared a room so you can get cleaned up.”

Instead of handing him off to an attendant, T’challa himself leads Bucky to the room. It’s as nice as the room from his maybe-memory where he might have danced with Steve. A pristinely made bed with light blue sheets sits to the left, between the door and the far wall, which is made of glass and looks out on an indoor atrium full of plants, sunlight, and a man-made stream.

Someone’s laid clothing out on the bed, a simple white shirt with black slacks. Black dress shoes are tucked against the end of the bed. Bucky isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be doing, but if they want him to dress up, he’ll do that. It’s the least he can do for T’challa, attend his Christmas party. If that is what he’s doing. Bucky doesn’t think they want him to kill someone. They didn’t leave a knife or a gun with the clothing.

Going with the party idea, Bucky heads into the adjoining bathroom to do as T’challa suggested. T’challa’s engineers have ensured he can take the new arm under the spray without taping a plastic bag around it. Bucky’s not used to the way it feels when it locks itself watertight, however. It’s stiff, hard to use, but assuredly better than a plastic covered limb ever has been.

Over the two years he was on his own, Bucky discovered ‘getting cleaned up’ is his favorite thing to do. The water beats down over his head, running in rivulets down his back, warming him from the outside in. It’s nice, but mostly it’s _new_. They didn’t have this before he was the Winter Soldier, Hydra’s Fist. This, at least, he knows. Communal bathrooms, bathing in the kitchen, tucking the tub into the closet and finding it turned upside down when Steve needed a step-stool to reach the higher shelves.

Well, he’s not sure about the last part, but showers? Showers he’s sure are new. Hot showers, fresh fruit, microwaves, and velcro are his favorites. Then there are the things that Bucky can’t quite believe, like there’s two more U.S. states, the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles, not to mention the Internet. To say the least, it’s been rough trying to piece his memories together in the new world by himself.

 _Maybe_ , a mean voice in his head whispers, _but you didn’t have to be by yourself, did you?_

Bucky snorts and turns off the water. Maybe he didn’t, but just look at all the trouble he’d caused Steve the moment they were together again. Steve, who has given up his entire new life for him. And Bucky? Bucky isn’t worth it. Hopefully that’s why Steve wasn’t here when they woke him up. Hopefully, the punk will finally have figured that out, patched things up with Tony, and washed his hands of him.

The thought makes him ache. Bucky doesn’t know what he’ll do if Steve’s left him behind. Steve, the maybe-memory of him, is all that keeps Bucky going. If Steve gives up on him now, he’ll know they were another, last, sick Hydra trick and then what will be the point of continuing to try?

Shaking himself of his melancholy, Bucky realizes he’s been standing long enough in the shower stall with the water off that goosebumps have raised along his chilled skin. He hurries through the rest of his clean up, drying his hair, brushing out the tangles, tying it back in a tight, neat bun. Back in the main room, he finds a pair of white briefs and slips into them, then the clothes.

Muscle memory takes over and his hands adjust the sleeves, rolling them up to his elbows. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of the shirt, and reaching for… suspenders, he realizes, but there’s none there. They’ve gone out of style, though black slacks and a white dress shirt never will. There is a belt, and he slips that on before looking around, uncertain of what to do next.

Thankfully, Bucky doesn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on his door. It’s not T’challa this time, but a young woman with a shaved head and gorgeous eyes. Bucky thinks he’s supposed to flirt with her, but all he can manage is a weak smile.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she says, her English as accented as T’challa’s, “if you will follow me, I will take you to dinner.”

Since she’s not expecting an answer, Bucky only nods and steps out into the hallway. The woman leads him only to the end of the hall they’re already in. Bucky finds it curious, since he had been fairly certain this was a guest wing, but he doesn’t question her. The door opens at the press of her fingers and she holds it open for him.

Bucky makes it a few steps inside before he freezes.

Steve is here after all. Bucky guesses it wouldn’t be a surprise if he’d been able to listen to T’challa, but it is. The wave of emotion that rises in his chest is what stops his feet and glues his eyes to Steve. He looks exactly like Bucky remembers, except for the tentative, hopeful smile hovering around his lips and in his eyes. He’s wearing the same white shirt and slacks as Bucky (explaining who laid out his clothes), but the punk’s buttoned his all the way to his throat and topped it with a black vest that highlights his broad shoulders and slim waist. Bucky wants to rip it off him, lick his incredible abs, squeeze his firm pecs, make him shout as he teases his nipples…

Bucky _wants_ , and at the same time he wants to cry. It’s a shock, because he wasn’t letting himself feel just how badly he wanted to see Steve. How disappointed he was not to see that smile, those blue eyes, that shock of blond hair. Now it’s here, here and waiting for him in a strange room, with dinner on a table in a corner, and soft Christmas music playing out of a speaker hidden somewhere in the ceiling above them.

“Merry Christmas, Buck,” Steve says, hesitant, nervous, “and happy anniversary?”

“Anni…what?”

Steve’s face falls, but it’s _Steve_ so he rallies in moments and pastes on his false showbiz smile. Bucky finds he hates that. He must have seen it a dozen times to easily recognize when Steve swallows his pain and disappointment.

“Yeah, it’s okay if you don’t remember, but I hope you don’t mind if we spend it together anyway?”

It feels as though he’s walking through a dream.

“It was real?” Bucky blurts out, something warm blooming in his chest.

The expression on Steve’s face freezes.

“What?”

Bucky steps further into the room, irresistibly drawn towards Steve.

“Us. I didn’t… They didn’t put that there? It was real?”

It’s as if whatever Bucky says, he makes it worse. Steve's face crumples again, into the one that says he’d cry if his dad hadn’t taught him that was a sign of weakness.

“Yeah,” he says thickly, “it was all real. Loving you is the one thing I’ve always been sure I got right, if a little late.”

Bucky allows his feet to take him another step closer.

“And today’s our anniversary?”

“Yeah.” Steve’s letting himself hope, Bucky can see it in the lift of his eyebrows, the light in his blue gaze. Bucky hates himself for that, because the man Steve fell in love with died a long time ago. “Do you… remember?”

“No,” Bucky answers, then quickly adds as Steve looks down, “Maybe. I don’t… know, Steve. I’m not sure…”

“What’s real?” Steve asks.

Nodding, Bucky takes another step closer. He knows he has to be the one to do it. Since he found Bucky, Steve has been so good, giving him all the space he needs, letting Bucky make his own choices, his own decisions. He couldn’t have asked for a better friend, but Bucky’s terrified that the only thing that keeps Steve with him is hope for what they were to come back. If they’re going to be anything, it will have to be something new. Steve, if his memories are right, was always so stubborn. He may not accept that what they had is gone for good.

“You can ask,” Steve says softly. “You don’t have to tell me what you remember, just… ask. I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.”

Bucky would have. He would have asked all the burning questions right then and there. They were on the tip of his tongue, waiting for whatever dam had just broken. But it was memories that spilled over him instead. A room with a boarded up window, just big enough for the bed and a table piled high with food they haven’t touched. Bucky’s naked, Steve between his legs, staring down at him like he’s actually beautiful…

...Kissing Steve like he’s never kissed anyone before. Kissing him like he’s air, like he's water, like there’s nothing in the world that will keep him going but the feeling of Steve’s lips on his...

...Steve behind him, hand over his mouth, keeping him from shouting as they fuck, quick and quiet in their tent…

“...It’s gonna be fine, Sarge. Cap doesn’t look at anyone the way he looks at you…”

There’s a warm hand on his hip and another along his jaw. Someone - Steve - is saying his name over and over. Blinking rapidly, Bucky looks up into blue eyes that he now _knows_ have always shone just for him, and he winces at the concern. Of course, even after all this time, Steve would be the one to figure out something was wrong.

“The guys set us up,” Bucky says thickly. “For Christmas. I was so scared…”

Steve smiles, thumb brushing just beneath his ear.

“Yeah, Buck, but you did it. Kept me from runnin’ out on you, too.”

“Couldn’t wait to get my hands on you. To get you to…”

Bucky swallows, eyes darting to Steve’s lips. It’s been so long since they’d kissed, let alone had sex, and he doesn’t think he’s ready for either, but what guy doesn’t kiss his fella? What guy doesn’t show ‘em a good time?

Steve’s hand slips down to his chin, thumb brushing Bucky’s lips.

“We’ll take it slow,” he whispers when Bucky trembles. “Slow as you need, sugar. Just… just gimme another shot at bein’ yours.”

Bucky whispers, “I don’t remember how to dance,” because he’s irrationally sure that matters. Logically he knows it doesn’t, Steve never cared if he could dance, but he loved it when Bucky would turn on the radio and spin them around the few times they’d been able during the war. He can’t do that anymore, Hydra took away such unimportant skills and replaced them with how to kill a man with his elbow. Bucky knows lots of ways to kill a man with _only_ his elbow. He can’t remember how to do a simple side step.

Yet, somehow, Steve smiles.

“That’s okay. Lucky for us, I learned how.”

 

 

 

Steve’s hands shift, moving to positions that are at once familiar and alien. Letting Steve lead, letting him do anything he wants, Bucky is soon swept into a waltz. Someone is singing about a white Christmas as Steve leads him about the room. Steve’s smiling softly, his eyes gentle and warm, locked on Bucky’s and filled with so much love it’s overwhelming. That isn’t what makes the moment weird; it’s the certainty that Steve shouldn’t be able to dance. Yet, here they are, Steve guiding Bucky in a graceful glide, carefully spinning him out, then drawing him back in. It’s nothing like the fast hard dances he remembers in glimpses, but it leaves Bucky’s chest tight, his breathing short because this is a dance that he never shared with Steve back before.

This is his. Only his.

The song ends and Steve pulls him close, then twists him into a dip. He holds Bucky up effortlessly, but there’s concern in his eyes. That’s when Bucky realizes he’s shaking, every muscle trembling with the immensity of the feelings bubbling within him. The epiphany is simple: it wasn’t Steve who would have trouble accepting what they had was different; it was him.

“Bucky?” Steve asks quietly. “You okay?”

“I’m…” Bucky swallows, hands slowly clenching into fists about Steve’s wrist and his shoulder. “No,” he whispers, admitting what he has refused to so since he broke his programming in D.C. “No, I’m not.”

The next time Bucky is truly aware of his surroundings he’s on the bed, wrapped in Steve’s arms as he sobs into Steve’s vest. The moment he broke, began to cry, is gone from his memory. It would scare him if it wasn’t so common. It would scare him how easily Steve has broken down this wall that has held so firm for over two years, but it doesn’t because it’s Steve. It’s Steve’s arms around him, holding him, trailing down his arms and back, over the white fabric, but touching him so gently. Tenderly. As if Bucky is something precious and fragile. Any other day, he’d claim to be neither of those things, but with how Steve is holding him, maybe he can believe for a little while longer.

Steve doesn’t stop touching him as Bucky’s breathing evens out, his sobs fading to sniffles.

“I missed you,” Steve murmurs as he shifts them both, slides down the bed, until they’re face-to-face, nose-to-nose, and Bucky can see his eyes.

Bucky sniffs, embarrassed to taste the tears on his tongue.

“What did you miss?” he sniffs again, trying to clear his nose so he can breathe. “The bruises?”

Reaching up a hand, Steve brushes at Bucky’s wet cheeks, taking the evidence of Bucky’s tears with his thumb.

“Don’t be a jerk,” Steve huffs. “I missed talking to you, seeing you… touching you.”

Bucky looks at Steve; really looks at him. Physically, he looks the same as he had the last time had seen him, but there’s a new pain in his eyes. It’s easy to see now that he’s looking. Behind the blue of his eyes and the endless goddamn patience he seems to have, there’s an old ache. Bucky’d been too distracted to see it before, by Hydra and Zemo and surgery, but he sees it now.

“I’m hurting you,” Bucky whispers, the sound nearly lost in the soft strains piped in overhead.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve knocks their heads together. It’s not gentle, but Bucky’s sure it wasn’t meant to be.

“I hurt more when you were gone.”

Bucky reaches out to touch the corded pale neck. He wants wants to lick, to see how it would feel under his lips. It would taste better than his tears, but they’ve barely kissed, and look how that ended. If all he does is cause Steve pain, he needs to give him something good. Under his hand, Steve’s skin is warm and smooth. Bucky stretches his fingers apart, setting the pads on Steve’s pulse points and watches his eyes flutter closed, lips parting as he breathes. There is something intimately sensual in feeling Steve’s heartbeat beneath his touch. Steady. Strong. Alive.

“I wish I could make you happy without the pain.”

Opening his eyes, Steve’s lips draw together in a grimace before he says, “Can’t it just be enough that you’re here?”

Bucky leans closer to Steve, helpless to keep away from him. Had it always been like this? Was there ever a time he didn’t want to be close? He can’t remember one. Even staying away, two years away, had been possible only because Bucky knew life would become, well, _this_ , if he came back.

The sensation of his metal hand on Steve’s hip is muted, cutting him away from the warmth of Steve’s body. Bucky hates that he only has this to touch Steve with, cold and distant and inhuman. Then something changes. There’s a series of tiny clacks and, between one heartbeat and the next, he can _feel_ Steve. The texture of the high quality wool of his trousers, the body heat slowly seeping through the cloth, the firmness of the muscle and bone under his hand. It’s more than shocking; he hasn’t felt anything with his left hand in over seventy years. Now he feels all of it, every slight change in texture, pressure, and temperature and he moans, closing his eyes, as he savors the new feelings.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, tentative and worried.

“I have…” Bucky swallows, licking his dry lips. “I’ve missed this, too.” He opens his eyes, meets Steve’s gaze. “You. Feeling someone close to me.”

Leaning in, Steve brushes his lips along Bucky’s jaw.

“Just someone?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

“You,” Bucky swallows again. “I’ve missed you.”

Worry enters Steve’s eyes as he says, “I’m right here. As long as you want me to be.”

It seems like the kind of thing Bucky shouldn’t ask Steve to promise, but he can’t help himself. He needs to hear Steve isn’t going to abandon him. He knows it, now more than ever, but he still has to _hear_ it, has to have the sound chase away the demons whispering he’s not worth this.

“Promise?” Bucky whispers.

Steve, beautiful, wonderful Steve, smiles at him and nods.

“I promise, Buck. Long as you want me to be, I’ll be here with you.”

There is something almost incandescent in Steve’s eyes. So much love, so much absolute adoration and confidence in him, and not a shred of doubt. It’s made his eyes the bluest thing Bucky’s ever seen.

“Show me,” Bucky says, breathless, eyes wide and heart slamming into his ribs.

“Buck,” Steve says, hesitant because he promised Bucky they’d go slow and Steve is always a man of his word. Right now, though, Bucky doesn’t want slow. He’s still not sure he’s ready, but he needs this, needs Steve, and he pushes forward, their lips brushing.

“Show me,” Bucky says again, their breaths mingling.

As Steve’s lips cover his, Bucky closes his eyes and stops thinking. He stops trying to figure out where he ends and where he begins and just lets himself _be_ with Steve. Placing the control in Steve’s hands, he isn’t disappointed. Steve kisses him reverently, but with such heat Bucky’s body catches fire. They’re pressed together, every inch, Steve’s wide, warm palm on his hip, the warmth slowly passing through the cloth of his pants and into his skin. Conversely, it makes him shiver, and Bucky realises how much he missed Steve’s hands on him.

Moaning, curling his body closer to Steve, he whispers Steve’s name into his mouth. Steve groans and doesn’t stop, his hands sliding over Bucky’s sides, up into his hair, where his fingers curl gently against his scalp. The feeling sends more shivers through Bucky’s overheating body, making him moan again. Steve grins against his lips, scratching just a tiny bit, and a host of goosebumps blossom across Bucky’s skin. He curls his his hands into fists, trapping Steve’s shirt beneath, as Steve abandons Bucky’s lips to kiss a trail of fire across his jaw, and down his throat.

“Steve,” Bucky gasps again, eyes flying open to stare at the ceiling _still_ singing about snowmen. It’s nearly drowned out by the sound of their breathing, quick and short. Steve’s gotten his hands under Bucky’s shirt now, his lips wet and soft against his skin. It’s such a rush, primal instinct warring between danger and heat; freeing because this is his, theirs, and Steve wants him. Wants this... and he’ll never hurt him, no matter how vulnerable Bucky is.

“Your heart’s trying to beat out your skin,” Steve whispers, lips against Bucky’s pulse.

Bucky tilts his head back, offering more of his throat, giving Steve whatever he wants. He finds himself laughing, tugging at Steve’s hair, pulling him closer as he learns everything the arm T’challa has given him can feel. It’s so much more than he could have imagined. Not only warmth, which was already a shock to feel from his left, but texture too. More importantly, _details_. Like the way Steve’s skin is smooth on his sides, but a bit rougher over his chest where he has sparse, pale hair. This quality of sensation, the intensity of it, has Bucky gasping, as the emotion that rises within his chest makes his eyes damp and his throat tight.

Bucky’s never felt so grateful. So _very_ grateful.

Steve’s own hands are busy, pulling, exploring, making Bucky’s skin come alive beneath his touch. Both hands and lips have found their way down Bucky’s collar, between the open folds of his shirt, and he’s pulling more open as he goes lower and lower. Bucky’s laughter has fallen away and the fire in him has pooled, like molten lava, in his stomach and groin. The borrowed pants strain at the sudden tightness. Somehow, Steve isn’t touching him there, his hands and lips and body touching or brushing or leaning against every other part of him. It’s both impressive and infuriating, but at least Steve isn’t taking his time. He isn’t rushing, but Bucky’s shirt is falling away, all the buttons open, making it easy for Steve’s lips to find his nipple.

Part of Bucky expects Steve to balk at the scarring on his torso. It’s the first time Steve’s seen it, but his fingers whisper over the marks like a benediction, his lips teasing pleasure from him like he never forgot how. Bucky wants to cry and he wants to come, but mostly he just wants Steve inside him, filling him up like he does in the hazy memories of when they made love.

“Steve,” Bucky gasps, “Steve, please....”

“Yes,” Steve mutters incoherently, one hand curling over his hip, sliding over his pants. “Yes.”

The rest of Bucky’s clothes disappear quickly; he doesn't care how. All he cares about is Steve’s touch, the slow, slick slide of lips against lips; and the rasping caress over skin, warm and sensual. The loss of clothes makes it easier, more skin accessable. Steve’s leg presses between his, pushing them apart, rubbing their bodies together. Steve’s sweating, but so is Bucky, the fire inside them burning. Their panting breaths, moist against skin whisper names in awe and love and with such reverence.

Slick, thick fingers press between Bucky’s legs, against his entrance, and he thinks Steve’s never loved him more. It’s not the sex, not exactly, it’s the look in Steve’s eyes. That incandescence so compressed his eyes seem to glow. It’s all Bucky can look at. It’s all Bucky ever needs to see. Those eyes don’t look away from him as Steve opens him up, steals the tension from his muscles, and then replaces his fingers with something bigger, softer, longer.

“Steve,” Bucky breathes as Steve slides past all resistance. He’s in so deep, filling Bucky, possessing him, joining them together on a level that cannot be denied or explained. It’s not easy, but this is the best thing he’s ever done.

Bucky is aware of gasping, moaning, so loud it would be embarrassing if he could think about anything besides the way Steve is moving inside him. There’s so much pressure inside him, the heat and weight of a hard body over him and between his legs. There’s the sound of Steve’s harsh breathing, his half-mumbled praise, and Bucky’s name. It surrounds Bucky in a cocoon of sex and safety, allows him to let go, to let the pleasure rise within him. He doesn’t have to fight it. He doesn’t have to _fight_ , he just has to _be_ , and let Steve love him as much as he loves Steve.

When it’s over, Steve doesn’t collapse. They’re both exhausted, out of breath. Their bodies wrung of all emotion and pleasure, yet still together, still pressed from ankle to waist. Steve eases out of him, slips his hands beneath Bucky’s shoulders, and pulls him close while he rolls to the side. They curl together like parentheses, foreheads touching, breathing as one, as their bodies adjust to the high they’ve pushed them to.

“When do you go back?” Steve asks, once his breathing has evened, their heart rates something akin to normal.

Bucky feels the air rush from his lungs at the question. It’s at once crushing and surprising that Steve doesn't expect him to stay. He thought it’s what Steve would want, for them to be together now that they’d had this… breaththrough, or whatever the shrinks would call it. Instead he’s expecting Bucky to leave him again, and that hurts as much as it’s a relief he won’t have to break Steve’s heart after all.

“Tomorrow morning?” Bucky offers, searching Steve’s face for… anything. It’s the same look he always gets: resigned acceptance.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Steve promises.

A vice tightens about Bucky’s heart and he blurts, “Can you wake me for your birthday?” before he’s really thought it through. Yet the smile that earns him will be worth any hardship. Bucky thinks it might get Steve through hard times as well.

“I’d like that a lot, Buck,” Steve murmurs, shifting his legs so that they rub slowly against Bucky’s. It’s a slow, deliberate but non-demanding caress, and Bucky relishes the contact. “Thanks.”

“I won’t have a present for you,” Bucky warns, because he can’t stand the thought of Steve getting his hopes up for Bucky to smash them again. He drags his open palm down Steve’s back, a long slow stroke, in apology.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, gaze turning speculative. It’s a look Bucky knows he should find unnerving, but it’s just arousing. “Maybe you’ll have to be my gift, then.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathes, then grins. “So was I your gift this Christmas?”

Steve snorts, but smiles and nods.

“Yeah, Bucky. All I wanted to get.”

“Merry Christmas, Stevie,” Bucky whispers, leaning in for another kiss.

Just before their lips touch - because Steve is always a little shit, no matter how romantic - Steve whispers, “Merry Christmas, jerk.”

 

The End.


End file.
